


An Interlude

by fluentisona



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Bars and Pubs, Bartenders, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Disasters, Bisexual Victoire, Black Lavender Brown, Couch Sex, Cross-Generation Relationship, Cunnilingus, F/F, France (Country), HP Next Gen Fest 2020, Harry Potter Next Generation, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lavender Brown Lives, Lawyers, Lesbian Character, Oral Sex, Past Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley, Seer Lavender Brown, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Veela, Werewolf, Werewolf Lavender Brown, Werewolf Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:02:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27125608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluentisona/pseuds/fluentisona
Summary: Victoire is supposed to be chasing a serial killer, not shagging her uncle’s dead ex-girlfriend.
Relationships: Lavender Brown/Victoire Weasley
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24
Collections: Next Gen Fest 2020





	An Interlude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shiftylinguini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiftylinguini/gifts).



> For shiftylinguini, who wanted Victoire/Lavender, and thus birthed this beautiful, messy fic that I hope to expand on one day. I'm glad to be back in this fandom, if only for a visit!

Wizarding Strasbourg is made up of misshapen cottages lining a large main street, Rue Josephine, named after the first known witch of the French Imperial Family. When Victoire lands there just after seven on a random Tuesday in September, she knows she has a few hours to kill before her Aunt Gabrielle gets off work. A dance teacher, Gabrielle works until well past midnight most Tuesday nights, but this was the only time slot available for a Portkey to Strasbourg on short notice, and Victoire wasn’t willing to wait another week to get to France. There was a serial killer on the loose in England murdering Veela, and Victoire was going to figure out how to catch the killer before another innocent person was found dead. 

Most of the cottages are dark now, with signs outside in looping French that denote an apothecary, a wand shop, an ice cream place. At the nearest intersection, there’s one cottage with its lights on, a large Tudor building lit in soft lavender fairy lights, with music that sounds distinctly Veelan coming from its patio. Victoire walks towards it, glad she wore casual dress robes instead of her business suit for the journey. Her long white-blonde hair turns slightly purple as she nears the cottage, where a sign proudly announces _Tante Elle’s Tearoom_ in beautiful gold letters. 

At the front door, there’s a hostess with long back curls and violet eyes. She smiles at Victoire and says, “Rencontrez-vous quelqu'un ici?” 

Victoire silently wishes her sister was here. Dominique is infinitely more practiced in French than she, and wouldn’t sound like a toddler when she replies: “Non, je cherche quelque chose à manger.” 

“Your accent is atrocious,” the hostess says, slipping seamlessly into slightly accented English.

Victoire blushes lightly, her own Veela blood preventing the Weasley genes from turning her whole face red. “I’m jealous you can say ‘atrocious’ in a foreign language.” 

The hostess doesn’t laugh. “There’s a few seats at the bar. I won’t have a table for one available until around nine.” 

“The bar is fine,” Victoire replies. “Thank you.” She makes her way across the large restaurant to the bar in the back. She takes a seat towards the edge of the bar, leaving a space between herself and the next patron. She puts her bag down under the barstool, carefully wrapping one of the straps around her ankle and then casting a silent bonding charm. The restaurant doesn’t look unsafe, but there are confidential legal files inside her bag. 

The bartender, a tall woman with long locs threaded with scarlet and gold, doesn’t turn around when she asks, “What can I get you?” in a Yorkshire accent. 

Victoire, expecting French, trips a bit. “How did you know I was British?” she asks, instead of answering the question. This gets the bartender to turn around, and Victoire knows in that moment it’s going to be a good night. 

The bartender is tall, almost as tall as Victoire, with one eye dark as ebony and the other split down the middle by a scar that spans the entire left side of the woman’s face and neck. She has dark brown skin and full lips, with a series of gold rings in her left ear, left nostril, and left eyebrow. “You smell like London,” she says, her voice rich. “Actually, you smell like London and Weasley, which is new. You related?” 

Victoire blinks. “How do you know what Weasleys smell like?”

The bartender ignores her question. “I’m assuming you know Ron?” 

Victoire looks at her silently. 

“Ron Weasley? Auror? Harry Potter’s best mate?” 

Finally, she nods. “Yeah,” she clears her throat, “Yes. Sorry. Yes. Uncle Ron is my father’s youngest brother.” 

“Right,” Lavender responds. “Well you don’t look like a Weasley, so you must be Bill’s daughter. Padma says you’re a lawyer, right? Vivian? Viveca?” 

“Victoire,” she corrects, softly. 

“Ha,” Lavender says, without laughing. “Innit that a kick in the teeth? Alright, _Victoire_ ,” there’s a tone there that Victoire doesn’t quite understand, “What can I get you?” 

Victoire contemplates pushing, but the bartender is obviously hostile, and if there’s one thing she’s learned after practicing law for half a decade, it’s when to push with a hostile witness. “Can I have a Veelan Vixen sour, please?” 

“Sure,” the woman says. “You want something to eat?” 

“Yes, please,” Victoire answers. 

“What?” 

“Uh…?” She hasn’t seen a menu. Is there a menu? 

“I’ll put in an order for pounded yam and asun,” the woman offers. “They’re the best dishes in this place and made with my mother’s family recipe, straight out of Nigeria.” 

“How do you know what Weasleys smell like?”

The question is probably rude and definitely pushing a hostile witness, but meeting some random woman who knows what Uncle Ron smells like really wasn’t in her plans for the evening. In for a Knut, in for a Galleon. She stares at the woman head on, waiting for an answer. 

“My name’s Elle. But you’d probably know me as Lavender Brown.” 

Victoire blinks. 

That’s even more unexpected. As far as the Weasleys know, Lavender Brown was pronounced dead on May 3, 1998. Sometimes, Uncle Ron will mention her randomly, a throw-away sentence like, “Lav always liked the sour Bertie Botts” mentioned when one of his niblings complained about their selection. Papa mentioned her in a speech last year, discussing Fenrir Greyback’s lesser known victims, and why werewolves need to be accepted as part of society, not othered to the point of retaliation. 

“Oh,” Victoire finally says, after a moment of starring. “Shit.” 

Lavender barks out a laugh. Then she bites her lip and asks, “Any chance you won’t tell your family about seeing me?” 

Victoire’s eyes sink directly to Lavender’s lips. She doesn’t make eye contact when she says, “They think you’re dead.” 

“Whole world thinks I’m dead ‘sides the Patil sisters, Bletchley, and Pansy-bloody-Parkinson,” she answers. 

“How are you not dead?” 

“Bletchley found me,” she explains. “An hour or two after Hermione saved my life. I don’t know most of it, but he got me out of the Castle as he thought I’d been bitten. Then Padma and Parvati staged my funeral. The world was not kind to werewolves after the War, Victoire. The War almost killed me, and then the Ministry wanted to lock me up.”

“Oh,” Victoire says. “You don’t look like...you’re not what I was expecting.” 

“Because I’m Black?” Lavender asks, with little preamble. “Hermione probably told you I was blonde and left it at that. I was really into dying my hair at Hogwarts.” 

Victoire nods slowly, but then corrects her. “It’s more that you’re not annoying, and you’re devastatingly beautiful.”

This time she does laugh again. “And you are about as subtle as your uncle.” 

“Yes. You’re not the first person to tell me that.” Now she feels like she’s the hostile witness being cross-examined. 

Lavender nods, “Good. You Weasleys need to be cut down a few pegs every now and then.”

“Thanks?” Victoire offers, making eye contact again. 

Lavender nods again and walks away. When she gets to the kitchen door, she turns and meets Victoire’s gaze head-on. Then, she smirks. Even though she’s pretty sure Lavender can’t see it, Victoire’s positive the older woman knows she’s blushing. 

:::

It takes about twenty minutes for Victoire to receive her food. The meat dish is amazing, and she’s quick to compliment Lavender when the bartender walks back over to refill her drink. “Thanks,” Lavender says, pouring the violet drink into Victoire’s glass. “It’s one of five recipes my mum got to teach me before she died.” 

“I’m sorry,” Victoire says, automatically. She learned at a very young age to apologize whenever someone mentions a death. She’s been apologizing for deaths she didn’t cause since her first birthday. 

Lavender waves it off. “I doubt you’d be interested in learning about my Muggle mother when you can ask me about werewolf poisoning.” 

“How old were you when she passed?” Victoire asks, because she knows how to ask the right questions, especially when they’re offered up to her on gold platters. “I can’t imagine life without Maman.” 

“I was fourteen,” Lavender says. “The summer before fifth year. Cancer.” 

“Fuck cancer,” Victoire replies. She watched Aunt Audrey slowly succumb to stomach cancer when the twins were little. Even with all their magic, the Wizarding World still hasn’t figured out how to cure the Muggle disease. Audrey, a Muggle, died from stage four stomach cancer when Victoire was nine. 

Lavender laughs again, and Victoire glows a little with pride. The older woman’s laugh is deep and raspy, and it pulls on the scars near the nape of her neck when she laughs. She looks celestial, in a way, especially when she’s standing right beneath the lavender fairy lights and laughing. Victoire’s grown up around various levels of Veela influence, but there’s something poignantly human about the woman in front of her that takes Victoire’s breath away.

“You’re staring,” Lavender says. “But not like I’m an animal.” 

Victoire feels the anger beneath her skin when she says, “You’re not an animal.” 

“Most witches don’t know that,” Lavender rejoins. She looks sad when she says it, like she’s remembering something. Or someone, perhaps. Victoire knows Parvati Patil, the woman who was supposedly Lavender’s best mate and one of the people who knows she’s alive. Madame Patil lives in India, far, far away from France. 

Victoire shrugs. “I’m an eighth Veela. And my Papa was also one of Greyback’s victims. I work for a law firm that regularly receives death threats from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I know what an animal is. You’re just as human as I am.” 

“Mhm,” Lavender responds, like she’s contemplating something. Her eyes travel from the top of the bar, up Victoire’s body. When she meets the young woman’s eyes she asks, “What are you doing so far from London?” 

Victoire hesitates. “Officially? I’m following the Veela Killer. I’m sure you’ve heard of them?” When Lavender nods, she continues, “I make a better lawyer than investigator, but I’m also part Veela. It means I can get through some of the gatekeeping that our investigators can’t.” 

Lavender nods, cleaning a glass with her wand. She looks across the restaurant to the hostess. “Colette is half Veela,” she says, after a moment of staring. “You should talk to her when she gets off shift. I don’t think she’s closing.” 

“Thank you,” Victoire says. She takes a few more bites of the asun while Lavender waits on the other patrons. While the restaurant is busy, the bar itself is pretty empty. Lavender turns away to fill up an order for table six, and then turns back to Victoire and asks, “What about unofficially?” 

Victoire sighs. “Unofficially, I’m hiding in France for a few weeks so my family can adjust to the fact that my ex-fiancé left me for my baby cousin.” 

“Merlin,” Lavender says, “Are Weasleys ever capable of not being dramatic as fuck?” 

Victoire smiles and looks down. It’s strange to talk with someone who doesn’t venerate her family. Even Uncle Neville and Aunt Luna talk about her uncles like they hung the moon. 

“Who’s the fiancé?” Lavender asks. 

Victoire looks up. “Teddy Lupin? Remus Lupin’s son?” 

“Huh,” Lavender says, but doesn’t add anything. 

“What?” Victoire asks. She’s used to people being judgmental of her relationship. Most of the world thinks she and Teddy only got together because they were the children of werewolf-poisoned war heroes. Fucked up parents don’t make a relationship last nine years. 

Lavender shrugs, “I clocked you as gay,” she admits. 

Victoire feels the tension leave her shoulders. She looks at Lavender and smirks. “Did you now?” she asks. “I wasn’t sure you were looking.” 

“You’re part Veela,” Lavender answers. “Half the bar is looking.” 

“Sure,” she says, accepting the fact. “But you’re the only one I’m looking back at.” 

::: 

Around eleven, Victoire shoots a quick SMS to Aunt Gabrielle, telling her not to wait up. She wants to interview Colette if she has a chance, and she’s slightly hopeful that Lavender will keep flirting with her if she stays until closing. 

Colette walks out of the kitchen a few minutes after Aunt Gabrielle texts back. She looks at the phone in Victoire’s hand and says, “Is so fascinating how Wizards can accept Muggle technology but deny Veelan legitimacy. It’s almost as if you want to choose who passes as human.” 

“I’m assuming Miss Brown has told you about me, then,” Victoire says, putting away her phone.

Colette nods. “She did.” She looks around the emptying restaurant. “Do you want to grab a table? I have to leave by midnight, but hopefully I can answer some of your questions by then.” 

Victoire gets up, pulling her bag from her ankle up onto her shoulder. She thinks about pulling out her note-taking scroll, but resists. She doesn’t want to put Colette on edge. 

They sit down at a table in the far corner, but Victoire casts a silencing charm around them regardless. There’s plenty of hate against Veelas, even in France, and she doesn’t want to put the hostess at unnecessary risk. Although, now that she’s sitting across from Colette, it’s hard not to notice the Veelan magic. 

“Supposedly, the killer is trying to steal Veelan magic,” Colette begins, once they’ve settled in. “That’s what my mother’s been hearing among her friends, at least. No one’s seen the killer and lived but...there’s always gossip, you know?” 

“Gossip is more than I’ve got,” Victoire admits. “All I know is that there’s six dead Veela in France and three dead in England. Any lead is better than where I’m currently at.” 

Colette nods. “They say it’s a man, and he’s targeting sex workers. Not…” She pauses, probably looking for the right words. “Not people on the street. Not poor workers. The rich. The...what do you call them in English. Escorts, non?” 

“Yes,” Victoire says.

“His victims have all been at least half-Veela. And six of them are related,” Colette tells her. 

Victoire moves to grab her scroll. “We didn’t know that,” she admits. “Do you mind if I take notes?” 

“Veelan genealogy isn’t something we trust most governments with,” Colette explains. “But I know six of the victims were directly related--all cousins, and two of the others are distantly related to the six. We think the ninth victim may have been a mistake?”

“What?” 

“He had the same name as the third cousin of the second victim,” Colette explains. “Bastian Sommer. We think the killer was confused.” 

“That’s...do you know the other Sommer?” Victoire asks. 

Colette nods. “Oui. I called him this morning to see if he would speak with you. He’s available on Thursday morning.” 

Victoire nods. “Thank you,” then, “Wait. This morning?” 

Colette does not blush at all, but Victoire has been around her mother enough to know when a Veela is embarrassed. “Tante Elle knew you were coming,” Colette explains. “She Saw it last night in a vision.” 

“Broke four bloody bottles of Ogre Ale during that vision,” Lavender complains, walking over with two glasses of wine. “Don’t drink too fast,” she tells Victoire, “I want you sober by closing.” 

Victoire does blush, at that, and Colette rolls her eyes at the display. “Humans are so unsubtle,” she complains, “And werewolves are even worse.” 

“Is she serious?” Victoire asks, watching Lavender walk away. 

Colette scoffs, “Tante Elle is always serious about beautiful women.” She pauses, taking a sip of the wine. “You’re younger than her usual conquests, though.” 

“Maybe I’m mature for my age,” Victoire says, suddenly very aware that Lavender is a War Hero while Victoire is not even thirty.

Colette rolls her eyes, “I think you’re just very pretty,” she says. “Anyway. Does Thursday morning work?” 

Victoire nods, and returns to her note-taking. 

:::

By half past one, the restaurant is empty and Lavender has Quidditch highlights playing on the radio. She’s just sent the last of the waiters home, and the kitchen staff don’t bat an eyelash as they file past Victoire to leave. The last to go, a girl who looks like she’s fresh out of Beauxbatons, calls out “Bonsoir,” to Victoire as she passes, to which the British witch says, “Merci,” because she can’t remember the correct way to conjugate the formal second-person response. 

Her mother would be ashamed. 

Lavender finishes flipping the last of the chairs, a task she does by hand. Then she pulls off the apron she threw on for cleaning and turns to Victoire. “You need a place to stay tonight?” she asks. 

Victoire knows a line when she hears one. At forty-eight, Lavender should be able to do better. 

“I’m staying with my aunt while I’m in France,” she says, gathering her bag. “Thanks for the lead with Colette and Monsieur Sommer.” 

“Are you teasing me, Miss Weasley?” Lavender asks, and then promptly snaps her mouth closed. 

Victoire laughs lightly. “Did that taste weird on your tongue?” 

“Your Aunt Ginny was never on my list,” Lavender answers. “And I didn’t shag your uncle.”

“Not from lack of trying, from what I’ve heard.” 

Lavender draws herself up to full height. Her scarred eye looks violet and her brown iris darkens. “I was having a sexuality crisis,” she admits. “Which makes me the ideal person to help you through yours.” 

Victoire laughs for real this time. Her parents’ generation is obsessed with binaries. “I’m bisexual,” she tells the older woman. “I’m not having a crisis.” 

“Good. That means you’ll know what you’re doing.” 

Victoire cocks her head to the side and pulls a strand of hair around her finger. “And what, exactly, am I doing?” 

Lavender moves into her space, her smile now predatory, and says, “Shagging me.” 

Victoire pushes back against the older woman, her lips crashing against Lavender’s. They stutter for a moment, teeth clacking together, before Lavender grabs Victoire’s hair and course corrects. Victoire moans lightly at the tug on her scalp, allowing herself to surrender to the kiss. 

Lavender walks them back towards the kitchen door, but when they get to the bar she turns so Victoire is backed up against it. Victoire drops her hands to Lavender’s hips, digging into her hip bones as Lavender bites on her bottom lip. The first bite isn’t deep enough to draw blood, but when Victoire pushes into Lavender’s hip bones again, the older woman bites down a second time, licking over the bite when Victoire cries out. 

“What are you in to?” Lavender asks, pulling back. She holds Victoire in place, one hand on her hip and the other still cradling the back of her head. 

Victoire looks up dazedly, “I’m good with what we’ve got going,” she tells her, after a moment. “You taking the lead. As long as I get a taste eventually.” 

“Good,” Lavender says, dipping her mouth to Victoire’s throat. “Let me know if there’s anything you don’t like.” 

The teeth in her throat move downward, as Lavender pushes away the top of her robes, mouthing at her clavicle. Victoire pulls at the buttons on the side of her robes, down her left ribs, unsnapping them one by one while Lavender sucks an impressive bruise along her collarbone. 

Her robes fall to the floor, pooling at her feet. Lavender steps back, her eyes soaking in every inch of Victoire. She smiles lasciviously for a moment, then grabs Victoire by her hips and hoists her onto the bar. 

“You’re stronger than you look,” Victoire comments, now comfortably seated on the edge of the bar in nothing more than blue lace lingerie. (Aunt Gabrielle always tells them: “A Veela is always prepared.”) 

Lavender rolls her eyes, “Full moon in three days,” she says, before moving her mouth back to Victoire’s clavicle. She moves her mouth to the top of Victoire’s bra, mouthing there as she reaches behind to unsnap the offending lace. Victoire arches forward as Lavender’s mouth chases lower, finally wrapping around Victoire’s left nipple. She sucks, hard, while her nails trace the outline of Victoire’s ribs. It’s many sensations at the same time, and Victoire feels her Veela pheromones sweating through her skin. Lavender hums appreciatively, moving her mouth to the right nipple and rolling the nipple between her tongue and her teeth. 

As Lavender’s mouth dips lower, Victoire leans back on the bar, her forearms holding her up as Lavender kisses down to her hip bone. She nips, playfully, at the bone, then pulls her head back and looks up at Victoire. “All right?” she asks, smiling and slightly out of breath. 

Victoire nods. “All right,” she agrees. 

Lavender dips back down, her teeth along the inseam of Victoire’s left thigh. She pushes Victoire’s legs wider and then pushes Victoire’s whole body back, before settling on the barstool between her legs. Lavender appraises the blue panties, makes eye contact with Victoire, and then slowly dips her head down, teeth first, to mouth at the lace. She nips at Victoire’s labia, which is peeking out on either side of the lace thong. Her tongue pokes out and licks along the sides of the lace, before she moans loudly and pushes the thong aside. 

“So good,” Lavender says, and then her tongue is just left of Victoire’s clit and she’s started a fierce side-to-side motion. Victoire reaches down, careful not to grab Lavender’s locs, and moves her head slightly to the right. Lavender catches on and adjusts her angle. 

“Fuck,” Victoire cries out, arching her body closer to Lavender’s mouth. The older woman sets a punishing pace, her tongue skirting back and forth against Victoire’s clit. She’s always been a pretty easy shag, her body immediately responsive, especially when her partner is turned on. It takes just a few minutes before she’s wrapping her right leg around the back of Lavender’s head, urging her closer. Lavender, for her part, tightens the hold she has on both of Victoire’s legs, digging her nails into the fleshy part and making Victoire cry out again. 

The first orgasm she’s had since the breakup hits like a crescendo. She presses down against Lavender’s mouth, arching closer and crying out wordlessly. The second wave hits almost as hard and she gasps out “Lavender,” in a loud, breathy moan. Lavender lightens up the pressure on her clit, but continues to lap consistently. 

The aftershocks ease and Victoire looks down as Lavender pulls back. “This is probably a health code violation,” Lavender jokes, her voice even rougher than it was before. “But fuck you look good naked on my bar.” 

“That was bloody brilliant,” Victoire says in response. Her own voice sounds a little wrung-out, like she was screaming much more than she thought. 

Lavender laughs. “You’re gorgeous, and so bloody sexy.” 

Victoire knows her blush is visible this time. She looks at Lavender in her messy robes, with cum on her lips, and says, “I want to fuck you now.” 

Lavender nods, leaning down to grab Victoire’s robes and her bra. “I live upstairs,” she says, “You’re welcome to join me up there.” 

Gingerly, Victoire leans up off her forearms, which feel bruised against the bar top, and pushes off to land on the ground. She’s naked, save for partially ripped lace panties, but she’s unashamed. She follows Lavender through the kitchen and up the back stairwell. 

The upstairs flat is beautifully decorated, with more lavender lighting and plants spilling over every flat surface. There’s a large tabby cat sitting on the living room table. Lavender goes toward the couch and Victoire follows. 

“Do you want something to drink?” Lavender asks. 

“Are you going to stop using lines that went stale a decade ago?” 

Lavender laughs out loud. “You’re such a brat,” she says. Then she sits on the couch, pulls her robes up from the bottom, and spreads her legs wide. “Fine. Get on your knees.” 

Victoire smirks, maintaining eye contact as she sinks to her knees. 

“Will you take off your robes?” She asks, looking up at Lavender from between her legs. 

Lavender hesitates. “My scars are…” she looks over Victoire’s head, “extensive. I don’t usually let people see me naked.” 

Victoire shrugs. “I’m used to scars,” she tells her. “My dad’s are pretty extensive.” 

“Please don’t talk about your father while you’re kneeling between my legs.” 

“Valid,” Victoire laughs. “Still, though. Will you take off your robes?” 

Lavender hesitates a moment longer, and Victoire’s ready to move back between her legs. Then, she leans forward and pulls the robes up over her head.

Naked, Lavender Brown is an entire experience. 

Scars twist up and down her whole left side, angry brown lines that dig deep into her flesh, pulling it tight at strange angles and darkening parts that would have been light without the scratches. Her muscles are tense, either out of shame or fear, and Victoire kisses along the inside of Lavender’s thigh, hoping to ease her into sitting naked before her. She has on a practical cotton bra and a sensible pair of black knickers.

“It’s Tuesday,” Lavender says, when she sees the way Victoire is staring at her knickers. “I usually only pick up on the weekends.” 

“Does that make me special?” Victoire teases. She slips her fingers into the briefs, slowly pulling them down as Lavender arches up. The light hits her skin and she looks like some sort of ethereal lunar goddess. “Morgana, you’re breathtaking.” 

Lavender scoffs, “Not usually the reaction my body garners.” 

Victoire bites, hard, on the inside of Lavender’s thigh. She pulls back and says, “That’s because most people are stupid.” 

Making Lavender cum is work. It’s been almost a decade since Victoire has last gone down on a woman, and Lavender is a woman, complete with less lubricant than the teenagers Victoire hooked up with at Hogwarts. Victoire starts with her fingers, biting along the inside of Lavender’s thighs while slowly working her pointer finger inside of Lavender. The older woman leans back against the sofa, spreading her legs further as Victoire works her way in. After a minute or so, she pulls her finger out and licks it, getting her finger as wet as possible before slowly working it back in. This time, Lavender moans low and long. 

Victoire moves her mouth slowly, rolling Lavender’s clit with her thumb for a minute or two, making sure she knows exactly where to put her mouth. Once she’s sure, she replaces her thumb with her tongue, flicking slowly, experimenting with Lavender’s reactions. Once she finds a motion that makes Lavender’s whole body snap forward, Victoire kicks up the pace. She moves her whole head back and forth, trying to match the speed Lavender had down at the bar. 

“Another finger,” Lavender demands, spreading her legs impossibly wider. Victoire pulls her hand back to her mouth, licking her middle finger quickly, before slowly re-entering Lavender. It takes a moment, and a look of pain passes Lavender’s face, but then the older woman is back to moaning, arching up to meet Victoire’s mouth. 

“Victoire,” Lavender moans, in perfect French. “Fuck, faster.” 

Victoire goes back to shaking her whole head back and forth, trying to find a matching rhythm. Eventually, she stops fucking with her gingers, instead wiggling her fingers back and forth inside Lavender. “Fuck, close,” she hears, and she tries not to think about how her breath is becoming too shallow. She’s determined to make this beautiful woman cum. 

The orgasm isn’t loud, but it’s long. Lavender arches up into Victoire’s mouth, her body moving like a wave as her vagina contracts around Victoire’s fingers. She holds Victoire’s mouth against her clit, her hands in Victoire’s hair. By the time Lavender lets up, Victoire has to gasp for breath. 

“That was good,” Lavender says, after a minute. “Especially for someone who hasn’t shagged a woman in a decade.” 

Victoire smiles at the praise, resting her head on Lavender’s left thigh. “Thanks,” she says. “Any chance I can get that drink now.” 

“If you think I’m moving from this couch in the next ten minutes you’ve lost your mind. There’s butterbeer in the cupboard. Grab us two bottles.” 

Victoire gets up, peels off her soaked thong, and moves towards the cooling cupboard. She finds the butterbeer in the third cabinet, along with a few frozen meals and some leftovers. Apparently, Lavender cooks downstairs.

She walks back into the living room to find Lavender fast asleep. She shakes the older woman gently, and Lavender snaps awake, her hand already on the wand next to her. 

Victoire rolls her eyes. “You War Heroes are all the same,” she jokes. 

Lavender laughs then. “Merlin you’re so young.” She grabs Victoire’s hand and pulls her down on the couch. “Listen to the end of the highlights with me,” she says, referencing the radio. “How long are you here for?” 

Victoire snuggles into her chest, throwing her feet up across her lap. “Until I find the killer,” Victoire tells the older woman. “Or he finds me.” 

“Ah, self-sacrifice,” Lavender says, half-asleep. “Definitely a Weasley.” 

Victoire curls up in the woman’s arms, listening to her cousin Molly score another goal on the radio. As the sounds of Uncle Lee and Aunt Angelina fill the flat, she gently drifts into sleep. Tomorrow, she’ll have to start scouring France for evidence of a serial killer no one cares about. Tomorrow, she’ll have to explain to Aunt Gabrielle where she was, which sounds like an insurmountable problem. Tomorrow, she’ll probably tell Uncle Ron his ex-girlfriend is still alive. Maybe. 

Right now, though, she’s wrapped up in the arms of a beautiful, if slightly terrifying, woman. She falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of HP Next Gen Fest 2020. The creator will be revealed at the end of November.


End file.
